


What If

by docs_pupil



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Drama, Dramedy, Funny, Gen, Short & Sweet, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 14:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7980787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/docs_pupil/pseuds/docs_pupil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the Sole Survivor never met MacCready nor hired him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> (Author's Note: With as many places as Preston sends us on missions, he has to have maps he updates while at Sanctuary.)

"Hey!" The former vault dweller is roused from a dead sleep by one of the settlers on night sentry duty. "Wake up!"

The groggy young woman quickly sits up in bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Somebody came running in wounded! They said their camp was being attacked by Raiders!"

She throws her feet over the side of her refurbished bed, reaching over to the nightstand for her Pip-Boy. "Where is it? Did they say?"

"He said it was a fire pit in a junkyard near a bunch of trees on a rocky hill."

She has an internal fit over how vague the directions are, but drags herself out of bed with a solution in mind. "Can you wake up Preston and tell him I need to use his maps."

The man hurries out of his house.

Having found two possible places the wounded traveler could have been referring to, the Sole Survivor sets out to do what she does best, in the dead of night. With most of her allies either asleep or in an induced stupor of some kind, Nick obliges her request to go traveling.

***

Under a moonless sky, a lone figure kneels on the roof of the junkyard "office", hunting rifle in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other. He scrutinizes the two running toward the yard, guns blazing, with a carefully trained eye. Deciding the new arrival in the Silver Shroud hat and coat is indeed his target, he grounds out his stub of a cigarette, taking his firearm in hand.

The Sole Survivor and Nick stop dead in their tracks, not expecting the dead silence.

"Where's the shooting," she wonders, keeping her gun ready. "And the Raiders?"

"They must have left, which means we got here too late." His glowing, yellow eyes take in the surroundings at lightning speeds, trying to spot something out of place. "There's a fire behind that stack of cars." He gesture with a nod.

"Then they're still here," the young woman says.

They hurry towards the dying embers of a cooking fire, finding only one other human from the supposed raid, now dead.

Nick takes a knee beside the body, putting his non-metallic hand on the deceased man's forehead. "He's been dead a few hours. A single gunshot to the head."

"But it took us less than an hour to get here, and Raiders aren't than precise."

"The Gunners are." The ominous glowing-eye look from under the brim of his battered hat reaffirms her creeping suspicions.

"Then it is an ambush."

A single shot from above catches her in the left leg. She falls to the ground, holding tightly to her shin. The crippled young woman orders Nick to run, which he does after the second shot grazes his shoulder.

The Vaultee gets back to her feet as quick as she can, squinting hard in the direction of the gunshots. Outlined in the bright green graphics of her V.A.T.S is a figure perched on the roof of a disheveled office lining up another shot in slow motion.

The shot catches her in the shoulder, sending her staggering back a few steps.

She quickly injects herself with a Stimpak, sprinting toward the building.

The shooter slips his rifle onto his back, leaping from the rooftop. He makes to run out of the cluttered junkyard, but her Synth companion jumps from the nearby shadows, tackling him to the ground. He wrenches an arm behind his back, sitting on his legs.

The costumed woman rushes toward the now pinned figure, angry. "THIS," she gives him a swift kick in the side for emphasis. "Is for shooting me in the leg. And THIS," she kicks him in the same spot. "Is for shooting me in the arm."

The shooter grits his teeth against the pain.

"You finished," the detective asks in his "I don't entirely disapprove" tone.

The Sole Survivor takes a deep breath, calming her temper. "Yeah." As the detective drags him off the ground, it dawns on her where she's seen him before. "Hey! You're the angry, bearded guy arguing with the other two men in the Third Rail."

The familiarity of her face comes to him just as quickly. "And you're the clumsy idiot that knocked over the dummy?" MacCready finds even a small chuckle to be painful. "Should have known it was you. Not too many costumed weirdos running around the Commonwealth that live long enough to get a reputation."

"Why were you trying to kill me?"

"I was hired to. Isn't it obvious?"

"Who sent you?"

"I don't ask for names, just caps."

"Sounds like Charlie's work to me," Nick tells her. "A place, a time, and only money exchanges hands."

"But why me?"

Not only does he find her multitude of questions boring, but the pain from being kicked in the ribs is getting the better of him. "Look lady, I don't know who you are, but ya must of pissed somebody off, because they want you dead. Not just dead and gone either, they wanted you to suffer before ya kicked it."

"That explains the poor marksmanship."

She has a devious thought. "You think they'd pay me if I brought them his head?"

Without a second thought, the wounded mercenary attempts to wrestle himself free of the synthetic detective's hold. The young man's fervor proves no match against the strength of Nick Valentine, however.

"You know who might have a handle on this shady business, Hancock. It is his town."

"Good point."

"You guys aren't gonna let him torture me, are you?"

"Torture never crossed my mind, actually," the Sole Survivor reassures him.

The young man breathes a sigh of relief. "For a second there--"

His thought is cut short by Nick pistol-whipping him. "Grab an arm."


	2. Part Two

Red Rocket Station

Inside the Red Rocket, Hancock and Deacon carry in an unconscious mercenary, tied to a very cushy airplane chair. They set him down in front of the panoramic window, facing his seat inward.

Cait wanders in, grabbing a Nuka-Cola from the cooler behind Deacon. "Bust his bloody kneecaps, I say." She cracks the bottle open, tossing the cap to the Vaultee who immediately pockets it.

"Maybe later," the Survivor tells her, slipping off her coat and hat. She leans against the adjacent counter-top, folding her arms to look more intimidating.

Deacon pulls up a stray chair, straddling it as he rests his elbows on the back.

"Shall we get down to business," Hancock asks the room, itching to try out his newly crafted machete.

"No torture, please," the young woman reiterates. "Just scare him."

A swift kick to MacCready's shin jolts him back to consciousness. He bites his tongue against the pain once more.

"Mornin' Sunshine," the low, gravely voice of the Mayor greets the groggy prisoner. "Sleep well?"

The mercenary almost jumps out of his skin. "Hancock!" His first instinct is to back away, but his bound hands and feet say otherwise. He yanks at the ropes strung around his confinement chair. "I didn't know she was one of yours, it was just a contract I picked up from Charlie, I swear!"

The ghoul laughs. "Good ol' Charlie. I bet the runt doesn't even know _how many_ he's working for."

The Sole Survivor cocks her head in contemplation. "You said they wanted me to suffer before I died, who would do that to their enemies?"

"Everyone and their brother," Deacon tells her. "And believe me, I know a lot of brothers."

She frowns, finding the vague answer of no help. "But who'd bother hiring a third party in the first place?"

"Most anybody important has their own people, they'd deal with it in house. Besides, I don't think you're a threat to any of them. Yet," the Spymaster adds as a positive aside.

"I just love how you brighten my day, Deacon," she sarcastically tells him pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Anytime, Boss."

"Boss?" The gunman is stunned by the turn of phrase. "Then you aren't just some crazy nobody, you're an actual gang boss."

Hancock chuckles. "This is why you have a price on your head? Because someone thinks you're tryin' to muscle in on their territory?"

"You know," the spy adds, in a half-joking manner. "Maybe we should start collecting matching bandannas, see if we can't legitimize this thing."

"I figured most of these guns that come to Goodneighbor aren't as stupid as they look. And this one," he waves his machete in the mercenary's direction. "He has a reputation for being pricey, but getting the job done, which means he ain't stupid. Now," he presses the blade to the soft skin under his chin. "Did they want a finger or a head?"

"H-head," the mercenary stammers. "Definitely head."

"And where where you supposed to leave it?"

"With a guy. Said they'd be waiting under the full moon, near a place called Egret."

"Egret Tours Marina," the Survivor wonders.

"I don't know, lady, I'm not a merchant," the tied up young man smartly quips.

The ghoul digs harder into his neck, feeling him cringe and jump.

"All the job said was Egret, I swear! I was supposed to ask Charlie for directions after I got your head!"

An idea quickly formulates in her mind. "If it is a night meeting, maybe we can use this 'gang' thing to our advantage."

"I think I like where this is going." Deacon smirks.

"Nick," she yells out the window to the Synthetic man smoking on the couch. "We need to borrow your coat!"

"And the hat," he adds getting up from his seat.

"And your hat!"

"Would you like the shirt off my back too," he snarks.

"I've got my own, thanks," Deacon shouts.

"Cait," she yells, running off down the bridge to Sanctuary. "I need you for something!"

 

Egret Tours Marina, full moon night

In the faint moonlight of a woodland night, no one looking on from a distance would ever suspect the two finely clad figures weren't the Silver Shroud himself, except for their prisoner walking in between them of course.

"You even think a double crossin' us, MacCready, and I'll beat your brains out meself," Cait threatens, running her hand over the brand new Super Sledge on her back.

Under the brim of his hat he rolls his eyes. "You'd never catch me, so don't flatter yourself."

"A bullet might." The Railroad spy plays it off as if it were an innocent thought.

MacCready eyeballs the position of the moon at the foot of the hill. "It's almost time, I think."

Deacon nods at Cait who gives one last quiet protest before hiding in the shadows of the woods.

"We'll be watching you," the man reiterates, looking for a good spot to hide. "So worry a little bit."

The young man cringes, feeling the menace in his passive-aggressive tone. He heads up hill, scanning the nearby derelict buildings for any sign of the mystery man he's supposed to meet.

A tall, muscular figure in full Raider armor trudges up the hillside, meeting the gunman's eye.

They approach one another cautiously, MacCready holding up a sack with a head in it. "Here it is," he yells across the dead grass. "Where's my money?!"

The man makes his way toward him, taking the bag for a quick peek inside. "Nice work." He reaches under his leather breast plate and inside his leather jacket for a pouch of caps.

The young man takes his payment, touching the brim of his hat with two fingers. "It's what I'm paid for."

A twig snaps loudly in the nearby trees.

They both snap to attention, nervously searching the immediate vicinity of the woods.

Outlined in the moonlit trees, two figures dressed as the Silver Shroud step out of the shadows noiselessly, watching the men.

"I thought you said you killed the costumed freak," the contact stresses, watching as the shadows draw weapons.

"I did," he lies, mustering fake hysteria. "You never said there was more than one of them!"

The one on the left rests a Super Sledge on their shoulder, while the one on the right points a pistol in their direction.

"I didn't think there was!"

A primal roar sounds from the sledge toting figure who charges the two men. The figure raises their mallet over their head and brings it down on the nervous mercenary before he can run, knocking him to the muddy ground unconscious.

MacCready's contact jumps back from the figure clad in actual Silver Shroud apparel, reaching to his thigh holster for his revolver.

The second Shroud fires their silenced pistol at the sack in the man's hand.

He immediately drops the bag, running back the way he came, nearly hysterical himself.

"Ha!" Cait takes off her black and silver fedora, shaking her wild, red hair free. "Dumb bastard."

The young man sprawled on the floor cracks an eye open to see for himself the man running for his life.

"Oh gettup already," the red head demands, kicking dirt on him.

He gets to his feet, caught somewhere between relief and agitation. "You crazy—ugh!" MacCready grabs at the now bent chest plate hidden under his coat, feeling the metal dig into his under shirt. "You almost killed me!"

"Aren't ya lucky I didn't." The pit fighter leans nonchalantly against her giant Super Sledge.

Deacon walks out from the shadows of the trees. "This turned out to be more fun than I thought," he says, tucking his pistol back into his borrowed coat. "Let's do it again sometime."

He furrows his brow at their uncaring attitude of what just happened to both him and the other man. "You people are just plain nuts, aren't ya?"

"Oh shuttup and get goin'." Cait grabs his forearm and shoves him in the general direction of Red Rocket.

 

Red Rocket Station

In the wee hours of the morning, Piper Wright, cigarette in hand, watches as three familiar figures make their way back from who knows where. She heads inside, rapping her knuckles on the door frame of the little side room. "They're back, Blue."

She gets up from the bunk, heading out to meet them.

"We're back," Deacon announces already in a change of clothes. "And boy did we have some fun."

"Oh good, this thing was starting chafe." The Vaultee tugs at the leather corset uncomfortably.

"The shite you wear doesn't let me breathe, any damn way," the fighter complains, peeling off the layers of costume as they head inside the station.

He hands the lounging detective's things back, addressing her though the broken window. "So just as a heads up, someone out there _may_ believe you're the leader of a Silver Shroud gang with complete autonomy across the Commonwealth."

Slipping her suspenders over her shoulders, the young lady feels like she should say something constructive about his comment, but decides against it. "Okay."

He goes about commandeering the bunk, for a few hours rest.

Cait wanders off upstairs, looking for something to drink.

The young man stands at the edge of Red Rocket, waiting for something to happen. If he understands gangs as much he thinks he does, maybe a bullet, maybe a beating.

She approaches him, a soft smile on her face. "By the way, you can leave anytime you want. No one is going to stop you."

He never trusted anyone who smiled too much, or was too happy for their own good. "How do I know I won't end up with a bullet in my back?"

"You don't," she tells him in a very matter-of-fact tone. "That's part of the risk, right?"

"Can't argue with that."

"Well, like I said before, you're free to come and go as you please. This _is_ a settlement after all."

"Wait a second, you're just going to let me go?"

"Isn't that what ‘free' means?"

Everybody wants something, he's learned that the hard way over many years. The way this woman treats him though, it bugs him that she won't come out and say what she wants from him. "You have to want something, everyone does."

"Well, if you really want to help…" She mulls his words over. "Are you any good in a fight?"

Without a single iota of hesitation he answers her. "The best."

"Piper!" She waves over the woman in the red trench coat. "Nick!" She also waves at the Synth in the battered hat and coat.

"Yeah." Nick walks over, adjusting his tie.

"What's up?" Piper asks, tossing her cigarette on the ground.

"I was hoping to get your honest opinions about him and his skills." The Sole Survivor gestures at the defensive mercenary. "Since you two are the best at sizing up people."

With a fast once over, Valentine comes to a conclusion first. "Pretty good shot. He could've easily killed you earlier. Assuming he wants to make nice, you just gotta figure out what makes him tick more, blackmail or money."

The reporter nearly throws a fit. "He shot you!"

The Sole Survivor sighs, asking the woman to clam down. "It was just twice, Piper."

"Missed a major artery both times, too," Nick points out calmly.

"Oh my gawd." She buries her face in her gloved hand. "You really want _this_ working for you? What if he tries to kill you again?"

"I'll tell you what," he simply says. "The price is two hundred and fifty caps. Up front. And there's no room for bargaining."

"Gets right to the point, at least," the detective says.

She nods, handing him his fee. The woman stifles back a yawn, walking off to Sanctuary for a nap.

MacCready jingles the pouch of caps, waiting for the sane part of his brain to catch up to the greedy part. "What the hell just happened?"

Nick laughs at his blatant idiocy. "What did you think she was gonna do?"

"Gangs usually kill their competitors, that's pretty common knowledge."

The Synth reaches into his coat pocket for a cigarette. "That's because we're not a gang, kid." He finds a tin can instead, which he immediately flings in the direction of the garage area. "We're just a bunch of professionals with guns."

Piper approves of his clever turn of phrase. "Ooo! I'm quoting you on that." The excitable lady plucks her notebook and pencil from the inside of her trench coat furiously scribbling away.

"But she even helped me out of a contract," he tells the detective in utter disbelief.

"It's what she does. She helps," the woman in the red coat informs him hounding Nick for details about the shooting.

He comes to the conclusion that they are in fact, all nuts, and indeed very skilled.


End file.
